


Twined Together

by The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: M/M, Off-screen death, Possible new series??, Updates will be frequent, hopefully
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-14 21:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5759860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea/pseuds/The_Secret_Life_Of_Tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can you be married to a memory?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Question

Can you be married to a memory?

1.

They slump forward into my arms. Overcome, overwrought, overwhelmed… I hold them tight and hiss into their ear, “You better not leave me again.” 

2.

It's no easy feat, waiting around for someone who will never come. It feels like rocks piled up around you, pebbles between your teeth, gravel scraping scratching at your lungs. I cannot talk. I will not talk.

I will not listen, either.

 

3\. 

The first night alone.

Alone with them. 

Finally, finally I hear breath. Life is in the corridors-- the old girl seems brighter with them within her. She knows I shouldn't be alone.

“You need someone to stop  
you.”

4.

I come to their side, hands resting on their back. I want to tear, to wrench them open, spill their secrets out upon the floor and marvel. 

Instead, I press down, and they’re all gentle piano fingers and softened sighs, melting into my careful touch.

Like a live wire, I cannot let them shock me again.

I will not let anyone shock me again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten considers.

"Yes."

1.

There are some days that neither of us get up out of bed, for our own secret reasons.

Mine: loss, anger, hatred of myself and my own futile actions.

Theirs: loss, anger, a need to feel less dependent on my kindness-- a need to spite me.

No matter our reasons, the TARDIS is silent.

2.

I don't talk to them the first few days. It's much too raw, a pulsing, aching, throbbing wound, and I'd just hate to pick or pull at it.

(I wait for some semblance of healing; after all, I am the Doctor.)

The first few days are marked by this quiet, eyes lowered, hackles risen.

(Like a wolf at a deer, I wait.)

3\. "Shut up. Okay? Just shut your sorry, stupid mouth!" I scream, eyes wide, hands less hands than claws. 

They've sniffed out her shirt, the one she left. Smirking, they held it up. Taunting.

"And who's the lucky lady?" they'd asked, a bitter little smile on their cracking lips.

In the following silence, they gape at me-- but I don't give a damn. I'm past caring about our games of diplomacy.

They scoff, dropping the shirt-- the fabric falls and puddles upon the tile.

"Be that way," they seethe, and step on the shirt as they storm out.

4.

It takes two washings to clean off the bootprint.


End file.
